30th June, "I'll Never Do Another Ironman."

"I just gunned it on the last lap because I knew I'd never ever do another Ironman." said the victorious Otter (12 and a half hours) "I was pretty pleased but I'm annoyed that I wasn't in the top half, just missed it by a few places."

"So are you going to write that book now? 'From Telly-Tubby to Ironman'.

"I've tried eating but I just can't eat anything."

I managed a packet of crisps.

Strangely I don't feel that knackered joint-wise, I thought I'd be unable to walk. 

28th June. 3.8km Swim And All The Rest.

The signal for the start goes for the experience known as swimming with rubber dolphins.

You can't go there and you can't go here but there's a bit of water! then an anonymous rubber dolphin is trying to swim through you to get to it.

Eventually there are less dolphins and things calm down a bit but not too calm or you might be veering off at a complete tangent adding another kilometre just for fun, you must keep 'in the swim' but don't get kicked in the eye.

The thumping beat of the music and the bellowing French DJ fades to nothing and there's just the sound of your own splashing and breathing, the goggles mist up, now what the hell do you think about for 1hr 23 mins?

Normally it would be - this is hellish, I'm tired now, how much further is it? or THERE'S A LONG WAY TO GO ISN'T THERE? MY GOD THERE'S A LONG WAY TO GO! THIS IS JUST THE START AND THERE'S A LONG WAY TO GO THERE'S THE CYCLE AND THEN THE MARATHON IT'S CERTAINLY A LONG WAY A VERY LOOOONG WAY TO GO!

This is where I was able to recall the words of Auld  Jimmy the painter from Glasgow working up at Turin House. There he was in his white overalls sitting painting endless numbers of cast iron radiators which had lots of finicky bits in the castings.

"God don't you get bored doing all those radiators?" I said

"Nah! Just blank it oot! Blank it oot, whit else can  ye dae?"

180 km BIKE.

One down three to go.

Needless to say I easily have the oldest least competitive bike out of 2800 but as I said to the guy behind in the queue for the check-in "One should choose a bicycle that matches your ability to save embarrassment."

Anyway after a tour of industrial estates we come to a short but steep hill, gears crunch on the carbon bikes all around me and there is the first of many casualties a guy holding up pieces of his derailleur at the side of the road with an expression of WTF??

"For you Tommy ze war iz over!"

It's certainly an international field, everyone's first name is on their racing number and because I seem to suffer from that condition known as Hyperlexia - (an involuntary reading of everything you lay eyes on) I'm all too aware of this as other riders are passing me all the time.

Is it because I've got a crap bike? No it's probably just N.W. (Natural Weakness), because it happens going uphill.

"It's like the Rocky Mountains." comments a seated gent who's getting on a bit as he comes past in the cooler air at altitude.

"Male 70." Seventy! Jeez! Unlucky for old Horst I saw him later on struggling with a puncture at the side of the road so at least he didn't finish in front of me.

Despite the endless 2000m hill the bike is proving to be almost enjoyable with French people in villages shouting "Allez! Allez!" Until I feel the sun beginning to burn the not often exposed flesh of the shoulders obviously that Factor 30 isn't sweat resistant.

There are people throwing up at the side of the road, women crouching in long grass,  more broken bikes, and the occasional sound of the ambulance siren, so long as they're not coming for me.

Eating is right out with all that acid, there's a choice of "water"?, "energie?" or "cola?" which is the cry at every feeding station just grab as you go past, amazingly I never have to stop for a pee in the entire 180kms.

42.2 km Run.

Two down one to go but the run was going to be bad - Your First Marathon.

When I was coming in on the bike I saw the Otter starting his 2nd lap having collected the first hair band round the wrist -  blue.

Now it's pretty hot because it's mid afternoon the whole thing is just a bloody mind game. 

How hard do you push it? Not as hard as the bodies laid out in the Red Cross tent wrapped in space blankets with a drip set up or that guy unconscious on the pavement.

All you've got to do is keep running and don't forget to drink. "Energie?" "Cola?" "Water?"

Trouble is the whole time is spent peering at other peoples wrists to see how many bands they've got, none at all, a blue one, blue and white, or blue, white and red? lucky bastards on their last lap.

To tell the truth I'd been farting all day I think it was the "Energie",  was it the third lap? and I farted once to often if you get my meaning, then had to clench up until I came to the three portaloos.

There was only about a total of six portaloos on the whole run for 2500 people so it was worse than T in the park, well I just had to sit down in it all and those Tri suits you've got to strip off basically, that was a good ten minutes extra on that lap and no bumff of course.

Eventually I'd got red white and blue hairbands, even Isabelle had got caught up in the spectacle.

If you kept running the spectators where more encouraging, quite a few competitors had been reduced to walking by then.

Isabelle ran with me for the final couple of hundred metres to the Finish Line but couldn't keep up, it was a searing indictment of her current fitness level.

At some point prior The Otter had past going the other way and had said "Are you going to finish?"

"Finish?"

I'm going to finish this damn thing no matter what, I really wanted that brass plated medallion thing that says Ironman France, principally so when I'm in a care home with my chin on my chest drooling, they can say "Him? Oh he's an Ironman you know."

"No shit?"

28th JUne. "You're Gonna Be An Ironman Today!"

I'd been plagued by regret most of the night as to why I never thought to buy half a litre of Gaviscon or the french equivalent.

At 5.00am I mouth muesli and stomach acid to the sound of "We are the champions! We are the champions!" coming from the otters mobile cum mp3 whilst feeling about as full of life as Freddie Mercury.

" I don't think I'll even finish the swim..."

"We can either wait for the taxi and miss the start or if we set off now we can make it walking." reasons the upbeat Otter as we stand with Isabelle in the dark in a mild drizzle."

"Well what's another mile on top of a 140...?"

This feels like the walk of the condemned, there's no way out, I've told too many people, not to mention the money, the weeks of training, the broken forever ligament, the marathon of cardboard boxes... "Oh I had a dodgy burger on the campsite, I was feeling a bit ill so I decided not to bother..."

Now I'm getting more worried and sick if that was possible, even the Otter's looking a bit pale and nauseous "Where are the bouys for the swim? Is that the bouys?"

"WHAT! Not that one, there's another one out there."

"Where?"

"On the horizon."

"Oh fuck."

 

27th June. The Acid Reflux Party.

The Acid Reflux Party or as it's more widely known - Energy Party is a fully inclusive all-you-can-eat deal based around pasta.

Looking around at the other competitors most looked like proper athletes. "Did you see that huge black guy? fucking massive." 

"Yeah and that German with the Triple Ultra Triathlon tee shirt, the cycle was 540 kilometres

that's mental."

"I feel like a fraud, I shouldn't really be here."

"How many desserts have you had ?"

"Fifteen."

"FIFTEEN! I haven't had one, there's non left between you and Isabelle you ate the bloody lot."

26th June. No Bicycles On The Bus!

For some reason the Otter had reasoned it would be a good idea to bring one massive cardboard box about the size of a piano.

It was bad enough getting from the Cote D'Azur Airport to the campsite, Isabelle was all for spending €90 on a taxi, "My entire budget for food" wailed the Otter "It's only €1 on the bus"

Anyway in stage 2 of the cardboard box game three buses had already refused to take the now assembled bicycles back to Nice so we could "Relax" (what a joke) before the race. Obviously some H&S ruling, it was obvious the only answer was re-boxing.

I'm afraid with the heat, the cardboard boxes, the burger illness and what have you, I began to get heavily into my usual "What's the fucking point?" routine, Isabelle started talking about taxis again and I had to go and sit in the shade.

"I thought that was going to be a real fall out" commented the Otter who is learning a lot about

relationships on this holiday.

To cut a long thing short a bit of haphazard stuffing back in, which still left the handle bars protruding like the horns of a Highland cow and we were sorted and on the bus. Unfortunately only for about 2 mins, when Isabelle had a "MY BAG!" moment or rather "MON SAC!"

This is when a woman is parted from her handbag usually filled with inconsequential dross but in this case also passport and wallet. "ARETTE! ARETTE!"

That might have been it, as we continued on the road to Nice now with a grand total of  2 bicycles and eight pieces of luggage including a box the size of a piano but no Isabelle.

25th June. Camping Pylone & The Bad Burger.

"You can get a burger for €2.50 over the road trumpets the Otter, I vote we eat there."

"There's never anyone sitting there, you don't know what you're eating, I don't want to be ill."

When they say Burger at the Camping Pylone restaurant they mean burger only, a big brown thing nestling on a bed of fries, no bun.

Just around the time of the dawn chorus I could feel the In-House Pylone burger sitting like I'd eaten a lump of Uranium. "If I try not to think about it I'll be alright", mind-over-stomach sort of thing.

Isabelle had gone to ablute when I turned over and my eye fell on her pizza box from last night or was it the night before that, anyway it acted like a vomit trigger.

I caught the eye of the Swiss German over the way as I discharged what looked very like cocoa flavoured traditional porridge through the unzipped tent flap.

"Didn't you hear me?" I asked of the Otter

"No."

20th June. 7 Days Till D-Day.

Only a week to go and I'm looking forward to Ironman France about as much as wading ashore on Omaha beach.

Completion of the race will give 2 simultaneous category wins.

1st overall with one kidney.

1st overall with steel framed bike.

 

19th June. Endless Moan About Ironman France.

What with getting Mother cremated and so on, not to mention the continual financial effort keeping body and soul together, the 30 week Ironman training program has suffered.

Meanwhile The Otter continues to eat huge meals and have a lot of sex whilst claiming to never run out of breath, it's pretty much a foregone conclusion like the latest result at Stirling a +2min victory reduced to a -4min defeat in the space of a year. (Bastard).

In fact I'd like to take issue with the Fink program in its entirety - "Follow this to the letter and you'll be competitive?" 

Willhehellaslike!

I  feel about as strong as a kitten with M.E. True I've been knocked down with the latest cold virus but all the same...

"It's all in the taper" promises The Otter. 

To the uninitiated the taper consists of doing very little in the last week (apart from eating and having a lot of sex, no change there) then we can reap the rewards of all that training (yawn).

8th June. Your Cremation. FAQ's.

"See it'll be quite a small coffin, we make them to measure, isn't it?" said the very Welsh undertaker.

"Chipboard?"

"Yes, veneered."

"Plastic handles?"

"Yes, you see all that goes."

"Yeah?"

"Well it's the fans, isn't it? forced draught..."

"So what are the ashes that are left?"

"Well, basically that's just the bones, isn't it?  They go in like a tumble dryer with heavy steel balls and that crushes them, see? Will you be wanting the ashes?"

"She wanted them scattered on the Mersey. So what happens to the stainless steel? She had a replacement knee and a hip."

"Well, I'm coming to that bit, see. There's this new EU regulation we have to offer the stainless steel parts to the relatives, isn't it? I don't understand it myself but can you sign here?"

"Well I was wondering about polishing it up and mounting it, sort of a conversation piece."

"I don't think that would be a good idea, would you? No one's ever asked that before."

My brother chips in - "I wanted to ask you if it's true or not, a few years ago I was on holiday and there was a bloke who was a Funeral Director,  he said so long as you've got a Death Certificate you can take the body up to the Crem in the boot of your car and they'll do it for fifteen quid is that true?"

"Well, technically yes but I don't think that would be a good idea isn't it?"

1st June. Gone.

"Gone." was the only word my brother said when I answered my mobile, referring to Mother of course. 

This was actually in a dream I had  a few weeks ago.

In reality the conversation followed much the same lines - "passed away" - a slightly more long winded version of "gone'.

Yes so Mother is finally away to demand to see the manager in the sky.

1915 - 2009